


Skies Are Black And Blue

by Jacen



Category: Ladyhawke (1985)
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacen/pseuds/Jacen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't write one another notes anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> While I was writing [Courtly Love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1929633), its recipient suggested that it should come with a companion piece about why Navarre and Isabeau don't write notes. Also I wanted to write something with Philippe! Thank you for reading!

"It is in my nature to be nosy, Lord," Phillipe rambles as he plucks at the straps that hold Navarre's saddlebag closed. He is certain there is something of interest within. Even a man on a quest for vengeance must bring something along of himself. He only wants a look and besides, it isn't as though he can run off with it. The hawk is right there and he is certain she remembers more than the priest thinks she does. "I am merely satisfying my curiousity, nothing more," he directs at both God and the bird. The former gives no audible answer, but the hawk ruffles her feathers and peers at him. He gives her a glance, then shakes his head.

"It isn't stealing, lady hawk, if you put everything back." He gently pulls the contents of the pack free, setting it on the ground and hunkering down next to it. "You'll see, I won't take a single thing." With deft hands, he sorts through the pile. Lady Isabeau's bundled clothing and knife he sets to the side-he is familiar enough with that packet to know there is nothing interesting inside. Navarre’s purse is the second thing he notes. Scooping up the loose leather bag, he weighs it in one hand. It is disappointingly light, though he supposes being out of civilization for awhile might account for a lack of money. Still, the captain was a gentleman. Perhaps a few sous won’t be entirely out of the question once this is over?

He drops the money bag on top of Isabeau’s things, then prods a stiff kerchief aside. It looks like it is stained with sweat and possibly blood and thus is of little interest. There are a few very small satchels of herbs which he can only guess the purpose of-it doesn't seem as though Navarre is capable of ailing, aside from the heartsickness he carries fairly literally on his sleeve. The remains of a spare shirt which looks as though it had been rent by claws some time ago and has since been torn piece by piece for bandages is wrapped around a whetstone. Phillippe turns them over in his hands, finding nothing beyond the obvious, then drops them with the rest. 

With these things set aside, only a scattering of feathers and a battered prayer book remains. “This is uninspiring, Lord. As a professional, I am ashamed for him to have so little worth stealing.” Picking up a feather, Phillippe notes the notched end and the dried ink at the tip. The others are the same and on closer inspection not a one matches the plumage of the hawk. Taking a long look, he sets them atop the shirt, then picks up the prayer book. “Even this is barely a pittance,” he says, opening the cover. The inside of the book falls onto his knee and Phillippe immediately scoops it up. “Less than a pittance, with such poor binding.”

He tries to fit the parchment back into the spine of the book, but it is awkward and does not seem to line up properly. Turning it this way and that, he realizes that it is actually a larger piece folded in on itself, rather than a series of pages. “Hello, what’s this?” Moving his finger, he reads _love, Navarre_ written on the parchment and pauses. Much more carefully now, he unfolds the page, taking a closer look at what he’s found.

_It is getting colder, I have left a warm skirt under the bench…_

_I miss seeing you wake most of all, more than the sun…_

_I will kiss you every hour of the day and you will never be hooded again..._

_Please forgive me, I didn’t expect you to be so near. I have gathered mint and yarrow to help with the pain…_

_I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you…_

_I want you to touch me again. I ache for you._

_I wish you had the day and I the night..._

_I will not live without you..._

Every missive is written in tiny letters and they cover the whole of this side of the page. There are only two writers; Navarre in clear, blocky script, Isabeau in cursive, delicate loops which are never too light to be readable. Though it is tempting to skip around the page, he starts at the top left corner, which seems to be the beginning. The first notes are long-he guesses they were the earliest, full of questions and plans. The shorter, later notes are the most wrenching-Isabeau's sorrow and Navarre's desperation are more clear with every word. He reads until he has read them all, then turns the page over.

There are no more notes. This side has very little writing, only a few words. 

_On this date, 14 March 1671, Etienne of Navarre has married Isabeau D'Anjou._

Beneath there are four signatures-Isabeau's, Navarre's and the priests, if Phillippe were guessing. He turns the paper again, wishing there were dates on the notes. How much time between that day and the notes beginning? He tries to glean the information from the text, but while they mention nights, days and weeks, they did not mark dates. His shoulders slump as he follows the notes again, constructing the sad tale in his mind.

_After they are cursed, they wander the north country, skirting the mountains as they try to find salvation. Navarre takes work where he can, while Isabeau hides in barns and ruins. It doesn't last. Someone finds Isabeau and they must run. Navarre builds a small shack and they try their best to live there. It is safe and sturdy, but it is not enough. He can travel out and back to get supplies, but Isabeau is more isolated and alone than ever. Navarre traps himself in the cabin in the evenings, but the wolf is no substitute for human companionship. At the end of their second winter, he began preparations, and by spring they are on their journey to Aquila._

"One week." Phillippe nearly yelps when Navarre speaks unexpectedly behind him. The captain, newly returned from hunting, had taken advantage of the youths distraction to read over his shoulder. "We had one week together before he hunted us down, if you were trying to figure out the numbers."

"You could have run further in a week, captain," Phillippe observes. Navarre immediately swats him along the ear, though it is not a blow meant to do real harm.

"Hindsight is perfect," Navarre retorts, taking the sheet from Phillipe. The thief does not protest. "We thought we were dealing with a man of God, not a maniac." He looks down at the page. "If we had any idea of what he could do, we would have taken everything and left." One finger traces over an 'I love you,' written in Isabeau's delicate hand.

"You would do it again." Phillippe does Navarre the courtesy of not framing it as a question, nor does he stare when the knight looks from the paper full of notes to the hawk. 

"Without hesitation." Navarre straightens, puts the parchment back into Phillipes hands and crosses the clearing to the perch, offering the bird his arm. She steps onto his hand readily, spreading her wings to balance.

"Do you write to her still?" Phillippe folds the paper carefully. "And she to you?"

Navarre looks at the hawk, the jesses loose against his arm. "Not since we came from the mountains." Phillippe sees Navarre's hesitation before he runs a gloved hand over her wing. "I lost the ink." It is a weak excuse, so flimsy the thief barely restrains himself from a bitter laugh. The sorrow that passes over Navarre's face makes him think better of it. 

"I will see if I come across any in the course of our travels," Phillippe says, knowing that Navarre will hear nothing. The captain is looking over the hawks wing again, checking to be sure she has healed properly. As expected, he merely nods and grunts something of an affirmative. Phillippe does not press. He has learned their rhythm, and Navarre is done speaking with him for now. He repacks the saddlebag in silence, slipping the folded parchment into Isabeau's clothing as he does.


	2. The Hawk

Dusk is a complex dance out in the woods. In town the hawk can be trapped in a barn, and Isabeau has some privacy after she has transformed. In the forest, the birds instincts take over at sunset. Three nights in a row have had Phillippe wandering to and fro among the trees, calling for the Lady with his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. She usually finds him quickly and has been more careful in her approach since the night she emerged from the underbrush directly in front of him and Phillippe's life flashed before his eyes. He is still grateful that Navarre didn't take that too poorly.

Tonight she is close, approaching him from behind a few moments after he begins looking. When she reaches over his shoulder to pluck the bundle from his arms he goes stock still, waiting for her footsteps to move a little ways off before sitting where she stopped him. 

He hears her shake out the clothes, the knife and the book hitting the ground when they are freed of their bundling, and then she pauses. If he wasn't certain it would mean his head, he would turn and look at her. There is a rustle as she continues to dress, then a soft thud. He risks a glance then, relieved to find that she has dressed, aside from her boots. She is sitting with one knee bent, unfolding the parchment as though handling gossamer. 

"There is nothing new," he calls to her. Her shoulders slouch a little, but she continues running her fingers along the page.

"You found it?" She does not look up.

He stands and walks over to sit near her. "You were there," he points out.

She raises an eyebrow and absently swats him with the empty book cover, still reading. "He let you read it?"

"He wasn't."

She smirks and gives him another rap across the knuckles. "You should learn to keep your hands out of other peoples things," she says, looking away from the page. She scrutinizes him briefly, then turns back. "What did he say?"

"That he misses writing to you. He regrets stopping."

She shakes her head, staring at the page as though she can see right through it. “You go too far Phillippe.” 

He lets there be silence for a moment, enough that her eyes move again and she resumes reading. “Why did you stop?” he asks gently.

Isabeau rests her hand over the words, then turns the page over. He tries to read her expression, but her thinned lips and half-closed eyes make him regret the decision. “We have nothing more to say,” she finally says, just as he returns to staring at the ground. “What else is there? This…” She trails off, her head bowed. “This is no life. I love him more than anything and to never be by his side again, to never be held or touched, to never see his face or hear his voice...I would have stayed in the mountains until the day I died, Phillippe, if I could only have him with me. I have written that to him in a dozen ways. What good does one more do? He will do what he will do, and I will follow him.”

"I could take you away. During the daylight hours or at night, we could go." She looks at him sharply, but he is still watching the ground. "You sound as if that is what you want."

"I don't." She is blunt, but softens as she returns to looking at the page. "I don't need to be saved from this, Phillippe. I chose him. I chose to be with him until the very end, and I knew that I was not choosing an easy life. I know..." She pauses, presses her hand over the page. "I know that this journey may end in his death. I know that it could end in mine. I accept it, because the bishop is a monster, and he must be stopped."

"And?"

She sighs. "Do you think God listens to those who have been claimed by the devil? I have prayed every night since the curse that it will not come to this, and yet it seems this is our road." She considers the parchment once more, then folds it and offers it to him, pressed in the cover of the prayer book. "I have faith in Navarre, Phillipe." Fixing the knife to her belt, she stands. "And besides. We're out of ink." 

Phillipe stares after her as she turns about and walks into the forest.


End file.
